Poetry

Being you,
not the bee queen.
Volatile as it appears, would say
one day, I don't know you yet.

The estranged mogul
returns home, empty-
handed.

Don't tell me in
stark and straight words, one
needs clemency.

The flame had touched me.
A strange panorama, created
by the geometry of violence,
now hurts.

Speed and direction
liberates the path breaker.
Resonance of your voice rises,
reading the same poem
again and again.

Segmented icons would not sleep
on the same bed.